


Better Left Unsaid

by TheMusicalHermit



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Gen, PTSD, Vulpes Inculta/Female Courier - Freeform, past relationship, very slow build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 19:50:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12306498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMusicalHermit/pseuds/TheMusicalHermit
Summary: Courier Six survives being shot in the head. So do her memories. She wishes they hadn't.





	Better Left Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter of a nearly abandoned fic idea centered around a plot bunny that's essentially 'Vulpes and Six are terrible exes (in different ways)'. I found it again recently in my tablette's memory and liked it. I'm still unsure if I'll continue it now, so until further notice this will be a one shot that goes into far too much detail. If you want more, please leave a comment saying so.
> 
> A/N: I do not own Fallout: New Vegas, and am making no financial gains from this work.

She woke up slowly. 

What was going on? She was in pain, such _pain_. It felt as if her insides were being electrocuted, twisted, flayed. There was a foul-tasting film on her tongue, _so thirsty_ , and her throat felt like fire.

Where was she? Wind, smell of soft dirt, nearby buzzing of large insects and someone digging. Coyote howls in the distance, angry voices almost drowning it all out. Where? What were they saying? She couldn't see - couldn't focus. Too much pain. " _I've been poisoned_ ," she thought. Cazadores? Shit. Needed to focus.

Suddenly the voice thudding in her head stopped being mere noise, and she was able to follow the argumentative tone. "Listen, I don't care if you hold the goddamn keys to Jacobstown - we've done what you wanted, got the girl, and gave you everything we found in her pockets. You got what you were after, so pay up."

"You're crying in the rain, pally," a second, strangely familiar voice said. Her eyes started to focus - two Great Khans and someone she was sure she'd seen around the Strip from her brief trips there. Omerta, maybe?

 _Focus_. Three in front of her, at least one to the side digging in the dirt. She was surrounded. Teeth grit tight, she went to move her arms, begin to move try to get away, the idea of finding out where she had been stung moving to the background. Then she felt it. A tugging sensation constricting her wrists, her fingers startlingly cold in comparison to the burning elsewhere in her body. 

_No circulation due to constriction_... Her mind hummed a tune before the noise continued. _Snakes? Coils... like robots? I wonder what happened to Old Glenn (like Glencoe) after the attack..._

Shaking off the ancient memories and crowding thoughts, she looked at her writhing hands in dismay to find them tightly bound, her weathered gloves the only barrier between the rough cord and her skin.

Suddenly she remembered - she'd been retracing her steps from Sloan (" _Hahaha... Welcome to Sloan, Sloane_...") after being told of the deathclaws on the road north, and a poisoned throwing knife had found its way into the back her calf as soon as she neared the broken down camper she'd passed earlier.

"Guess who's waking up over here?" Shit - she'd forgotten to move carefully in the fog that pervaded her mind. 

" _Maybe if I freeze now they won't see me_ ," she thought wildly. Part of her cried out that they were humans, not scorpions, but she froze all the same. " _See_?" She gave a quiet, mirthless chuckle that sounded more like a sigh. " _Didn't work, they're all looking at you now_."

She watched carefully, slowly realising the hopelessness of her situation as the possibly-Omerta took a drag of his cigarette. Hands bound, surrounded by armed men, grave's being dug... and this bastard was enjoying a Pre-War vice. She hoped he got ash on his stupid checkered suit.

"Time to cash out," he said at last, smothering the glowing ember of his dropped cigarette with a lazy twist of his foot. He opened his mouth to continue, probably having planned something dramatic, but was interrupted by the Khan not holding a shovel.

"Would you get it over with," he demanded impatiently. She didn't know whether she was perversely pleased that he seemed as unhappy to be here as she did, or insulted that he wanted her dead so quickly.

The city slicker looked affronted at the Khan's outburst. He stood taller, and held up a finger. "Maybe _Khans_ kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain't a _fink_ , dig?" His eyebrows were strangely expressive in their irritation, though the Khans just looked amused.

The fog in her brain prevented her from forming very clever thoughts ("' _It's because I'm devastatingly clever, darling, didn't you know?' Still remember the laugher..._ ") and the lingering numbness on her tongue probably make her sound completely off her rocker, but she tried anyway. "Nah, instead you'll take down someone who's facing away, so you can safely set them up for a face-staring death later, won't you Mr. Checkers."

A short guffaw came from the Khan digging the, no, _her_ grave. Mr. Checkers looked vaguely constipated at her slurred speech, his finger curling slightly in the air beside him. He shot a glare to her gravedigger and reached back into his jacket, apparently electing to ignore her quip. Bastard _had_ prepared a speech ahead of time if his clear annoyance meant anything.

"Look, nothing personal," he said, drawing out a very familiar looking, silvery poker chip, "But you've made your last delivery, kid."

She stared hard at the flash of silver, trying to remember why it seemed so important. Why she felt like she had to do something with it... Oh, right. It's the chip she has to deliver to the Strip. What did he want with it? It was probably just some fancy collector's piece. Rich people... Before she was able to think it over any more, he was placing it back inside his jacket.

"Sorry you got twisted up in this scene," he continued as he drew a small handgun from a hidden holster. He looked down the barrel at her, and she suddenly saw with absolute clarity that she was really going to die, that this wasn't just some game anymore. "From where you're kneeling it must seem like an 18-carat run of bad luck. Truth is..."

The soft click of the hammer was deafening.

"The game was rigged from the start."

There was a loud, bright flash, a bolt of blinding pain, and the sensation of her body slumping over.

" _I've died_ ," she thought as the world faded quickly around her. " _I had so much left to do_..."

Heaven (had to be heaven - there wasn't enough heat) was stranger than expected. At first it was very dark and cold, with an increasing sensation of weight on her entire body. Suddenly she realised her lungs ached. Strange. She tried to swim through the fog, only to suddenly be flying.

Next thing she knew she was warm and laying on something soft. Something was being trickled into her mouth. Whatever it was tasted horrible and she wanted to spit it out, but someone kept coaxing more down her throat. She vaguely wondered if she were still alive before falling into a dreamless sleep.

The short spurts of sensation continued, sometimes pleasant with an aged voice reading a book about fallen angels and some ancient paradise, sometimes the feeling of someone poking her head in uncomfortable ways and humming softly. Most times it was dim, warm light and the lingering question of where she was.

Finally she awoke, her first senses being of a cracked, yellowed roof overhead, where a fan spun lazily, a soft yet uncomfortable surface beneath her, and the oppressive heat that being indoors brings.

"Easy, easy there now," said a leathery man seated next to her in the same aged voice she remembered from her bursts of consciousness. "You've been out cold for quite a while now."

She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a croak as her mouth felt as dry as Death Valley. " _Haven't been there in a while_." The thoughts came, unbidden. " _No reason to_." A burning hellscape.

"Ah, yes, thought you might be thirsty," the man said again. She looked over to see him holding out a glass of water. "Might be warm now. Left it sitting out a while in case you woke up while I was cooking, but water's water."

Taking it with a thankful nod, she sipped the luke-warm water slowly before speaking. "Where am I?" Her throat hurt, and her voice was hoarse.

Moving to help her sit up, the kindly man answered in a calm voice. "Goodsprings. Small town, middle of relative nowhere. But it's well placed enough on the interstate for travellers to take a rest when they need to."

She nodded, laying back against the wall heavily when sitting alert proved too taxing. "Goodsprings... that's on the Long 15, isn't is?" She took a long sip, examining the room around her as he hummed an affirmation. "You mentioned you were cooking, right? Is there any left?"

He nodded and got up slowly off the chair, which creaked almost loudly enough to mask his popping knees. He laughed, saying "Not sure which will go first, that chair or my knees," as he shuffled to the left doorframe. He paused just within her line of sight to tell her to stay put, and then left the room.

She could hear him continue to move down various hallways, floorboards squealing intermittently. She briefly considered trying to get up and explore a bit. However, upon finally fighting her way to stand on her weakened legs, she dizzily pitched forward. The glass flew from her hand, hit the tray of doctor's tools next to the bed, and shattered as the tray went flying. No less spectacularly, she landed with a sound thump, barely missing hitting her head on the chair.

She lay there for a few moments before footsteps neared her and a hand lightly turned her shoulders so her back was no longer awkwardly twisted. From her new vantage point, she could see the mildly disappointed face of the old man, armed with a plate of food.

"Was hoping you'd at least wait until you had some solid food in you before trying to stand," he remarked dryly, transferring the plate to the chair before helping her sit up on the floor. He passed her the plate - it was filled with bits of desert salad and finely cut pieces of steak. He handed her a spoon produced from his back pocket, eyes watching her concernedly. "You need to get back your strength - you've been out for long enough for it to be difficult at first."

Knawing her lip in frustration, tears of shame pricking in her eyes, she fought to keep her voice even. "How long have I been out then, doctor?"

"Not too long, all things considered - two weeks. Not bad for someone who's been drug from their own grave, huh?"

"Two _weeks_?! The delivery should have been made in five days at most!" Angrily, she ineffectually stabbed the spoon at a piece of steak. "Goddamn it, people probably think I've up and died."

He smiled with an amused air. "Well they'd not be too wrong about thinking that. Lots of couriers have been going missing recently."

She looked up at him curiously. "How did you know I was a courier?"

"Well for one, the clothes you had on when you was drug in here, then the papers Victor said he'd found on you, and you just said you had a delivery to make. Call it an educated guess."

Her lips thinned in embarrassment, and she spooned up a bit more food. Finally, she asked, "Who are you, anyway?"

"Name's Josiah Mitchell, and I'm the doctor in these parts. Most folk'll call me Doc Mitchell, though I have been known to answer to variations thereupon."

"Ok... Have there been a lot of couriers to go missing lately?" Staying cool and collected while getting one's bearings _is_ the best option, after all. Better late than never.

He sat back and crossed his legs in front of him, muttering about his knees again. Taking a breath, he began speaking while absently massaging his sore joints.

"Well nothing's known for certain, but there's been a lot of couriers from the Mojave Express that've been found dead in the past few weeks. Most times it's caravaners who find them. Can't say for sure how many there are who've been killed. You're actually the second courier this month, if you'd believe it. Few days ago, one came down this way from some new settlement to the north-west. He was scared nearly witless about some cazadores, what've taken up at the junction on the back roads. Said he was headed to Primm to turn in some papers, or something. It's a pretty safe journey on the Long 15, so he's probably alright. Anyway, Sunny verified what he'd said later that day - signs should be up by now.

"Unfortunately," he continued, "that means trade's gonna continue to dry up round here, since with all roads heading north cut off there's no reason for most folks to head down this way. Rather leaves us even more out of the sight and mind than we were before."

"Say, never did catch your name. Robot that done drug you in here didn't have much to say towards that." He didn't look surprised when she stopped eating in shock at the mention of a robot. "Though, with any potential brain damage you might've sustained, I'd not be surprised if you don't remember all that much."

The spoon paused in the air, a piece of cactus fruit glistening in its small bowl, and she racked her mind for blank spots. "No, I remember everything. Though I may yet prove a bit muddled from the coma. We'll see. Name's Sloane Moran."

Mitchell nodded. "Like the mining town?"

"Nah, there's an 'e' on the end of my name. It's Irish, I think." She swallowed a piece of beef before continuing. "You mentioned a robot?"

"Yep, sure did. Victor, a securitron. Mark... something. Fancy model, kinda like those you see on the Strip, though can't say I know where _he_ came from in particular. Rolled into town some weeks ago, usually keeps to himself. Hadn't spoken much to him before he showed up at my door in the middle of the night with your not-so-lifeless corpse," Mitchell joked, eyes crinkling jovially. "Now, I'm sure you're also wondering what exactly my doctoral evaluation of you is."

Sloane smiled softly as she swallowed the last of the food from her plate. "Well, judging by what I remember I took a poison-laced knife wound to the back my lower right leg, and a shot to the head. I'm slightly more interested in how I survived the latter."

"I would be too." He took the plate and spoon from her and placed them on the chair before helping her back to her old position on the bed. "You're some kind of lucky, since the bullet managed to hit the left of your frontal bone at just enough of an oblique angle to avoid penetration and slid around the outside of your skull. Exit wound's towards the back of your head on that side, though it still needs a few stimpacks before hair will start growing back."

"However you do have a nasty scar on the front of your head as well, just here," he said, pointing at his own forehead, just above his left eyebrow. "At least it looks like it'll be nasty - had to remove some bone to allow the cranial swelling some space. Slight bruising, but the meds seem to have healed that up right quick. Patched your skull using some metal plating some of the Followers had dropped off a few years ago when they found out I knew something about cranial surgery. Wanted me to be prepared if it happened, they said. Didn't think I'd really need it. Was thinking about selling it off for scrap. Lucky for you, that obviously didn't happen."

She frowned - she certainly didn't feel lucky. "I mean, glad you didn't, but nothing wrong with you selling your own medical equipment. Probably wouldn't be having this discussion in that case, of course, but it's all the same."

Mitchell smiled again, and pulled a small bag marked 'Patient IX' from under the bed and handed it to her. "Well, it is true that folks need to make a living. This bag has your stuff in it. Or least what Victor found. I'll clean up a bit while you look over your affects."

"Thanks Doctor Mitchell," she said as she examined her worldly possessions.

Most of it was useless - four .38 bullets, a handful of dirt-packed assorted casings... No, _six_ bullets, but two were too encrusted with dirt to be of any use without careful cleaning first. And that was if the powder hadn't gotten wet. "Suppose I should be glad it last rained _before_ I was buried alive," she murmured.

Mitchell came back with a broom after a short while while and swept up the broken glass, carefully picking out the surgical tools from the shards as she looked over the bag's contents. Finally, after what seemed both forever and no time at all, she had arranged the objects on her lap and the bed on either side of her.

Various notes, most longer legible thanks to equally varied stains. Her courier contract was fortunately among the legible. 6 bullets, two of questionable condition. 5 assorted casings (.44, 9mm, two 5.56's, and a shotgun shell to be exact). 9 bobby pins, all slightly caked in dried mud and blood. Some coyote and nightstalker teeth strung together on a broken leather chain that reminded her of lazy summer days. A slightly bent ring made out of intermixed copper and iron wires, twisted around each other and adorned with polished pieces of multicoloured glass - it felt much heavier than it actually was. Finally a delicate and broken silver chain.

She felt a great sensation of loss at the chain. It probably showed on her face, because Doctor Mitchell asked if she'd lost anything important.

"Yes," she replied, her voice strong yet hollow. "An amber pendant, with a pre-historic wasp frozen inside of it. Had belonged to my one of my great-grandmothers some ways back... she'd had it before the War. It was one of the last reminders I had of... where I grew up."

Mitchell let out a long whistle. "Amber's real expensive with the Brahmin barons, and the few traders who used to come through from the East said the people out that ways saw some kind of religious significance in it." He straightened when her frown deepened, adding "But hey, with your luck I'm sure you'll manage to find it!"

His attempt at lightening Sloane's mood was met with mixed results. Nevertheless, she gave him a watery smile. Trying to run a hand through her hair in a self-calming gesture, she was met with a handful of tangles.

"I probably look terrible, don't I?"

"Compared to most people who've been shot in the head?" He smiled when her lips twitched at his deadpanned response. "Never was good with hair - going bald early in life'll do that to you. I have a mirror and the wife's old hair knick-knacks somewhere if you want to see about fixing it up."

She played with the chain absently. "Yes, please."

Her hair turned out to be a right mess, though fortunately not as dirty as she'd thought it would be. Doctor Mitchell looked almost affronted when she remarked on that, protesting that, regardless of his skills at hair care, no doctor in their right mind would dare do surgery on a dirt covered surface. 

It took some time to smooth out all the tangles and knots that had accumulated during her coma, a task made even more difficult by the wildly curly nature of her russet locks. There was a sizeable missing patch just behind her ear, which she lamely attempted to cover to protect the still-raw skin there. Upon finishing the arrangement, she patiently braided the bushy, shoulder-length hair, and secured it in a relatively tight bun with an antique pin Doctor Mitchell provided.

With her hair out of the way, she was able to examine the bullet's entry wound better. Doctor Mitchell had done himself a mild disservice when describing it earlier - the stitching was clean enough that scarring would probably be rather minimal except for the ragged looking divot in the centre. The pale pink of the scar tissue contrasted starkly against the golden-brown of her skin. 

Looking quickly over the rest of her face, she examined the various imperfections - old acne scars, the mud-splatter of freckles and small moles, the squareness of her face cut by sharp cheekbones and a wide nose, the beginning of wrinkles around her lips and between her unruly brows...

"Everything in order? Did my best with the stitching, but puncture wounds leave terrible scars no matter what artistry you have with a needle."

Sloane nodded, lips twitching into a small amused smile. "It's something to talk about at parties at least."

Mitchell's mouth quirked up as well, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "You'd likely win all those scar contests though. Hard to beat a story that involves being shot in the head."

"Hm, I'm not convinced. Being some lone wanderer or a sole survivor can result in interesting stories as well."

"Aren't all couriers more or less lone wanderers though?"

Sloane snorted, and shot back with "Most couriers can also claim the whole 'sole survivor' thing too. Not exactly a safe job, couriering."

"Evidently," Mitchell replied.

After a moment, he continued, saying "I think you're fine on this front, but standard practice after brain injury is to do psychological evaluations. Not saying you're crazy or anything, just gotta make sure the connections are all present and make notes of such. Not that I've got a computer to track it with anymore, but it's still procedure. I'll take just a few minutes to do this, and then we can start working on some physical therapy. Sound alright?"

The psychological exam was pretty standard from what she dimly recalled of psychiatry. Past a certain point she made a joke about how easy it would be to fake the answer, knowing the 'normal' responses, to which Mitchell responded with ending the test early.

"Seems to me that if you're missing _anything_ at this point, it'd likely be not very important," he said offhandedly as he placed his clipboard aside.

At his insistence they went through some repetitive physical therapy movements for some time. She still felt unnaturally weak, and stumbled occasionally when attempting to walk across the room.

"That should fix itself right quick, now," Mitchell soothingly remarked when her frustration showed. "It may take a few days to actually get back into the full swing of things, but doctor's orders are that you stick around here for a while anyway, so's I can keep an eye on your healing process."

Sloane groaned in response. "I hope it doesn't take too long - who knows what's happened out there while I've been out of it." She did a couple of quick jumping jacks, and found herself winded. "Though I'd admit you're right about sticking around here for a while. It's been a while since I've had a vacation, and I'd rather not have to brave the Long 15. Or try to get even just to the Mojave Outpost, in this shape."

The exercises now finished, Mitchell showed Sloane to the bathroom, leaving her to prepare dinner while she cleaned up a bit. The water, after rattling ominously in antique pipes, came out pure and clear. "A veritable luxury," she murmured, swirling it with her hand. Soon she found herself sinking into the tub's tepid depths, ears pricking at the muffled voice of Mr. New Vegas from the kitchen.

About ten minutes into the bath, there was a knock on the door. Unsurprisingly, it was Mitchell again - the floorboards instantly gave away every movement in the house. "I wasn't able to get the blood out of your regular clothes, so I've got you some of my wife's old vault gear. She was a bit more... rotund than you, but I was thinking the height difference may counteract it slightly." The floor outside creaked under his weight. "I'll leave them just next to the door so you have something to wear other than that old gown. You need anything, just holler."

"Thanks," Sloane called out, carefully washing around her head wounds. _One positive of old houses, she thought to herself, is their sneak-proof wooden floors_. It was something she'd remarked on regularly to her friends back in... Before...

Somehow the memory of the fires made her shiver. What was that old poem? ' _Because I know of desire, I would rather die in fire_ ,' or something like that. But perish twice in ice. How many times would the world, would her world, die in fire.

She recalled a soothingly calm voice reciting the poem in lilting tones, and frowned before sinking further beneath the water. The bath had lost all comfort as memories of the sounds of metal, the smell of ozone, the view of a settlement burning in the distance, and an overwhelming feeling of loss plagued her.

Her fingers felt numb, and she felt like she had to run, to fight, to do something. Escape the fires, fight the fires... Twice in fire, it's not fair. She remembered the screams cut short heard on the air, the _horror_. She had to do something. Help them, somehow. Waves of destruction, dust and men, different times. Different fires. Always helpless, always her fault. She didn't know, _couldn't_ know, never knew - _it's not my fault!_ The screaming, so far off she didn't realise what it was at first. But now there it was in her head, echoing...

Sloane vaulted ungracefully from the tub, slipping on the rim and barely managing to catch herself on her hands. Focus on the present, breathe. Smell of food and must. Sound of distant wind, a radio playing, the sizzling of a stove, the drip of water from the tub. The feeling of cool air, the feel of the aged, cracked tile beneath her hands. The sight of her hands, splayed before her eyes and pressing into the tile, the fingertips turning white with pressure, her jaw locked so tightly shut her teeth hurt.

She chuckled mirthlessly to herself. All this time, even after getting shot in the head, and _that_ was what freaked her out the most. Memories of burning settlements. At least that was one thing she didn't have to worry about in the Mojave - people were too hesitant about destroying shelter from the sun and wind.

Fortunately, it seemed that the radio that Mitchell was listening to had kept him from hearing whatever sounds she had managed to make during her... episode. She was grateful he'd not managed to hear anything, or at least was tactful enough to not bother her. Sloane hated explaining why she panicked at memories. Sometimes it made her feel stupid for even having the reaction at all. They were just in her head; they couldn't hurt her.

She huffed. Maybe it would have been better to lose her memories. At least then she could start over.

The idea hit her like a lightning bolt, erasing the lingering fear with a surge of excitement. She quickly sat up and set about getting into Mrs. Mitchell's old suit. 

To say it didn't fit was something of an understatement - the sleeves and legs were too short, and it billowed like a deflated ball about the rest of her body. She adjusted it as well as possible, but it still sagged awkwardly at her hips as she made her way to the kitchen.

Mitchell looked over her quickly when she entered the kitchen, most of his attention on frying some gecko eggs. "Well I didn't expect it to be too well-fitted. Vault suits are tailored, after all, and the people who wear 'em are generally better fed than wastelanders." His voice was haltingly condescending, as if he were aware of the prejudice in his words. "'Course, there is more variety in the wastes, so mind you I'm not complaining."

"No, I understand. I actually grew up in an open vault. Best of both worlds, until it wasn't anymore."

They chatted lightly over about similarities between their vaults, and differences. Hers had focused on robotic security features, his on gambling and luck. As most vault dwellers discovered eventually, various experiments were done with their vaults. Hers had been an experiment, on "the nature of _undesirables_ ," as the overseer's manual claimed. His had, by and large, been a control vault ("gambling aside - it was Las Vegas, after all!"). Both had the same hydroponic and water purification systems, or at least near enough that what details they recalled matched up.

"Oh, did y'all have that, quite frankly, sickeningly sweet preserved meat that came from the tubes?" Mitchell laughed as he got out some dishes for them to serve themselves.

"Yes," Sloane exclaimed, smiling. "Oh my Lord, I'd forgotten about that!"

"I swear, it's like they wanted us all to become some tree-hugging hippies or something," at which point they both snickered. "No red-blooded American in their right mind can live off of meat from a tube!"

She nodded with over-exaggerated solemnity. "Perhaps there was one who's goal was to save the animals or some such nonsense. Invaded the Vault-Tec HQ like the pink commie bastard he was."

"Well, honestly, I can see the point," Mitchell said around a mouthful of egg. "Much better to have a plant based diet when living in an enclosed space. Makes sense given the energy required in rearing animals and the waste created by them. Have you seen the amounts the bighorners manage?" She shook her head ruefully, and he shrugged. Swallowing, he continued with "At least that way we wouldn't've had to eat that meat paste."

She gasped, eyebrows arching. "That sounds dangerously like commie talk, my good sir."

Mitchell flicked his hand out, retorting sarcastically with "Yes, because pointing out flaws in a plan is obviously equal to supporting the destruction of all things American."

Snorting into her water, she muttered "America managed to destroy a lot of things through not listening to advice. Anyone with eyes can see the hippies were right."

With a muttered 'cheers to that,' Mitchell drank as well. He looked at his glass intently before looking up at her again. "So, Sloane, I'm wondering what you meant by undesirables, back when you was describing your vault and all."

She coughed slightly. "It was nothing like what you'd think - all of us were clean. No, we were deemed undesirable by the big wigs in Vault-Tec. Lots of the founding members were blacks, or recent immigrants. A few of them were the 'control' group though - the overseer and some other hand-picked white families whose job was to keep the society 'moral' or something. The idea was to put us all in there with security drones to see how long it would take us to kill each other or descend into anarchy. 

"Overseer's manual didn't see the test lasting long since we were all seen as subhuman already. I think some group called the Clan was involved in the test setup. At least that's what vault history said. They didn't count on Jebediah Black though."

"Jebediah Black? What did he do?"

"Old Jeb was a genius with numbers, and hacked the security drone protocols so they weren't threatening to shoot us if we got into groups too large, or were too loud, or were running too much. Made them less of a security to protect the overseer's room (and the overseer) and more of a general security with protocols that didn't target any one group within the vault's family. Allowed us to open the vault and set up a small fortified settlement around the vault. Was a great small trading post." She wiped the crust of her cornbread around her plate to get the sauces, catching the crumbs on her fingertips in a second pass.

"What happened to the overseer's family, then," Doctor Mitchell asked as he speared the last of his steak.

Sloane shrugged uncaringly. "No one really knows - I was told they all went off north some five years after the vault was opened to build some sort of 'pure paradise' for themselves."

The good doctor hummed, and stood. "Sounds like they wanted to keep the power they felt they were owed, due to history. Hope it didn't bite them too hard in the ass."

Before he could gather more than just his plate, she interrupted him with "I'll clean up - it's the least I can do."

Mitchell smiled, holding up his hands. "Alright, missy, as you wish." He walked over to a cupboard, adding "I think I'll have some wine after dinner - d'you want any?"

"No thanks, don't really drink," she replied as she cleared the table.

"More for me, then," he returned jovially while pouring a glass of wine. "There's some water and pop in the fridge if you want either."

Sloane nodded and set about scouring the various dishes. When she had finished the task she poured herself some soda. It tasted strongly of chemicals and sugar. Still, it was better than the over-aged, almost rancid wine most people drank in the wastes. 

She had once had a good glass of wine. _Very_ special occasion. Unfortunately it had also ruined her ability to enjoy the wasteland vintages.

Snorting with laughter into the pop at her pompous thoughts, she rejoined Doctor Mitchell in the sitting room.

He was reading a book with marked water stains on the covers, turning the brittle pages with intent care. "Is it a good book," she finally asked, breaking his concentration.

"Hm? Oh, yes - second volume of Gibbonn's _Decline and Fall_. Very interesting read. Potentially useful, provided recent news is true."

She glowered. " _Caesar's Legion_ , then? I doubt they'd want to admit to the existence of _that_ book. Where'd you find it?"

"Salvaged it from the old schoolhouse back when my wife and I moved here, along with my other books."

He gently closed the book and set it aside. "Curious though, that you use the hard 'c' there. Usually only the educated or the man's followers (though fanatics is more applicable) know that pronunciation."

Sloane stared back for a moment, before waving her hand dismissively. "We've already established that I am, in fact, educated." Her voice was too hard.

He hummed softly, gracefully ignoring her tone. "Well, alright. Anyway, seems like what's left now is to decide what exactly it is you're going to do."

"I'm gonna find the guy who _shot_ me."

"Yes," the doctor replied dryly. "And what else? That can't be all there is to 'ya."

Chewing her lip, she said "Well, I have to finish the delivery I started, which Mr. Checkers-"

"Mr. Checkers," Mitchell questioned in a soft and incredulous echo, but Sloane continued on.

"-has anyway. All I know about him is that he's a city slicker who wears a checkered suit."

"Can't help you there," Mitchell quipped. "Maybe ask around town? Or wait 'n see if he turns up again... do something else in the meantime."

"There really isn't anything else I want to do," she returned.

The doctor regarded her for a moment, and sighed. "I suppose you ain't got much else going for you, but doctor's orders are still that you take it easy for a few weeks. Get your strength back and whatnot."

Her nose wrinkled. "Listen, I've already said I'm sure that this town is great, and that I think a vacation would be nice. I'm just feeling, I don't know, _antsy_. That city slick could be out there right now gambling away _my_ delivery. I'll not have my reputation upended by some murderous thief."

"I see your point, but right now your reputation likely is as dead as he thinks you are."

Sloane threw herself on the couch, sending dust flying from the ancient upholstery, and crossed her arms firmly. "All the more reason to find him then."

"Look, I know you're angry." He ignored her scoffing. "But with your health it is _not_ a good idea to go gallivanting about the wasteland, 'specially given the troubles couriers have run into recently."

After a moment, she nodded her head curtly. "Fine. I'll stay here until I'm able to hit a target at 100 paces and run for 10 minutes straight, how's that?" She glanced at the doctor. He nodded, thumbing the spine of his book. "I suppose staying 'round here couldn't be too bad. Especially if it's as unlikely to get visitors as you say it is. Lord knows some rest will do me good."

Mitchell nodded again. The word _sagely_ came to her mind almost unbidden, as did the image of a smiling, wrinkled face the colour of wet earth. Her heart clenched painfully - she'd remembered too much. 

"So, how're you gonna do it?" She looked at him questioningly, and he elaborated. "How're you gonna get all the way to Vegas without him knowing you're comin'? Given what he did to you, not sure he'll take kindly to the idea of a... restless spirit, or what have you, coming after him. Seems to me that requires some manner of plan."

Sloane stared pensively at the bookshelf over his shoulder. Somewhere on that shelf was her new dossier, outlining everything the doctor knew about her. Amusedly she saw a faded title on the shelf, the word barely visible from the damage to the spine. ' _Frankenstein_ ' by Mary Shelley. She imagined herself shuffling after Mr. Checkers with bolts in her neck and sniggered. The parallels were laughably close - risen from the dead at the hands of a secluded doctor... But at least she had her memories, unlike the monster.

Memories that the monster lacked. She envied that. The idea hit her quickly. " _Like a bullet_ ," her mind sniggered.

"What if I pretend the bullet gave me amnesia?"

"What."

"Like Frankenstein's Monster - the thing rose from the dead and had no memory of it's former life."

He looked at her agape. "How would that help?"

She smiled, her mind whirling as she spun the lie. "I could pretend I have amnesia, hide my identity except for very specific situations... hopefully make it seem like _Sloane Moran_ died when she was supposed to. That way if he hears about me by name he won't try and run."

Mitchell frowned. "Why not just hide your identity and not pretend to have amnesia then?"

"Because I think it's time to try and begin again," she muttered. "I have a lot of memories that deserve to die. Maybe if I pretend I've forgotten them they'll finally disappear."

For his part, the doctor looked concerned, and a little sad. She fervently hoped he didn't pity her, prideful anger swelling momentarily.

"Well alright," Doctor Mitchell finally said, voice quiet. "Seems you're set on the idea, anyhow."

Downing the remains of his wine, he leant back in his chair with an uneasy look on his face. "Don't suppose you've got a name in mind then?"

She blanked. That's right - new identities need new names. Maybe the bullet _had_ done something to her brain.

"Uh, I don't know," she replied, glancing at the bookshelf again. Her eyes fell back on the faded Frankenstein book. "How about Mary? Mary... Wollstonecraft?" She remembered the name was somehow connected to the writer of Frankenstein - maybe she should look it up if she found a library with useable data banks.

"Mary Wollstonecraft." Doctor Mitchell sounded incredulous. 

"You're right - too fancy. Well, why not just Mary Shelley? It's not like it'll be easily recognised. I mean, who's likely to have actually read her book?"

"Well, it's not what I would've picked for you."

"I honestly don't know if you're being sarcastic right now," she, _Mary_ , shot back dryly, earning a wry smile.

\---

The room was dark, deathly still, and silent save for the moonlit outline of a metal door. Suddenly, it was thrown open with a loud bang. 

Escaping from the increasingly cold desert night, a figure entered, creating a rough silhouette in the silvery light. One arm reached out and casually flung the door back in its frame with a second deafening clash that echoed in the small room. Enough light remained of the night, filtering through the cracks around the door, to feel out the switch in the darkness. 

The electricity buzzed slightly as artificial light overtook and outshone the silvery cast of twilight, illuminating a tall man. He was dressed in what was, presumably, once a fine set of leather armour. There was a large, worn rucksack on his back and dusty goggles over his eyes. His head cover, an aged piece of fabric that had lost its colour long ago, was bunched around his neck.

The man huffed as he carelessly let his pack fall from his shoulders. There wasn't anything useful in it anyway, he rationalised - no need to be careful with it. No, what really mattered were the notes clutched in his left hand. They were little more than scraps of cloth, old paper, and thin metal with odd letters and numbers marked or engraved into them. Still, they should prove useful.

He carefully lay the various notes on a desk on the left side of the room, arranging them according to the code. His fingers moved quickly, their spindly nature belying their strength. Spider-like, they had once been called. It had been meant as a compliment. He'd since taken it upon himself to crush every spider he saw.

He blinked, suddenly annoyed at the taunt pull of the goggles. The rims seemed to dig into his eye sockets as a spoon does a bowl of fat. There a satisfying sound when they collided with the far wall, chipping off some of the drywall. He had probably dented the metal around the lens. Ah well - they were replaceable. They hadn't really even been useful as sun protection. All they did was keep the dust out of his eyes.

Still, that was better than nothing. He'd just have to find less aggravating ones next time.

Staring at the code before him, he slowly rearranged the notes until the message became clear. Strike that - almost clear. One of the notes had been hidden on a fresh body. The blood had managed to soak into the cloth more than his informant had evidently anticipated. The last few numbers required date were indecipherable. 

He would have some choice words with his subordinate for such... ineptitude. No matter - there were other ways to find out when the troops would move into town.

With cool grace, he pushed away from the desk and descended the stairs behind him. He tugged at the straps of the armour, undoing the strong clasps as he stalked down to the lower level. He couldn't wait to be in his usual uniform. The weaklings of the waste merely increased their own frailty by coddling themselves with such entrapments. It was almost claustrophobic, really, in comparison to the freedom of movement he had trained with.

Or the clothes that people on the Strip wore - the smooth silks and soft cottons that had largely been perfectly preserved by the robots. Even those were far surpassed, to him at least, by the comfort of the old vault uniforms. Heavy enough to be of some protection, loose and flexible enough to never be a worry. The aged leathery fabric had felt good too, he recalled.

Purposefully ignoring the specifics of the emotions that welled up, he allowed the only acceptable one, anger, to shine through for a brief moment. A snapping sound brought him out of his reverie. The straps would have to be replaced on the right greaves.

The air in the subterranean room smelt stale, as it always did. Musty was a close second. He had guessed long ago that there was an underground water source somewhere nearby, and the increasing size of the mould in the lower corners seemed to confirm his suspicions. Perhaps he should find a scientist next time he went into town - their intelligence would prove useful in a variety of ways. Least of all investigating and securing a new possible water source.

He hoped they would be easier to convince than the last scientist he'd tried to work with. The man hadn't known when to stop yelling, and had been entirely too obvious in his attempts to blow them both up. He had sent him to Cottonwood Cove rather quickly, though missing a few more extraneous body parts.

Finally freeing himself of the chest and back plates, he threw the armour down beside one of the beds. Using the bunched cloth around his neck to wipe his face, he methodically cleansed himself of the filth that he could almost feel seeping into his pores. Deciding against removing his heavy boots, he returned upstairs to his pack to dig out a small notebook and a carefully sharpened pencil nub. He sat on the threadbare couch that dominated the room and opened the book.

The thing was almost devoid of empty space, covered in meticulous and exact letters. Still, he carefully added a name to a list towards the back, crossed out two others, and began flipping through the rest of the pages. Silently, he read over his current objectives, and added the information from the notes he'd deciphered earlier. He glanced at the ham radio beside him, and decisively switched it on.

The static was a welcome change from the ringing silence. The noise would remain unaltered until shortly after two in the morning, he knew, though he lacked a proper time piece to mark the hour. His stomach growled as he lay on the couch, one foot thrown lazily over the armrest, and he absently fished a handful of dried corn from his pocket. The flavourless cud almost made him miss the slop of the fort.

Regardless, everything was almost in place for his message to the rest of the Mojave. The only thing left to do was ingratiate himself with the targets, dissolute as they were. A small part of him cried out that they couldn't all be bad, but he crushed it mercilessly as he turned his head to stare at his reflection in the broken television screen across the room. The worthy would survive. They always did.

Still. He would be careful to keep the mission in the forefront of his mind. He'd learnt that lesson the hard way.

After all, it is easier by far to rend asunder that which one does not care for.


End file.
